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Chapter Four:

LOUISA

When I arrived at Kings Head the smell of alcohol and what smelt like stale cigars hit me. I managed to make a beeline towards the back, knowing that the group preferred to sit in one of the back corners because it (as Patrick tried to explain to me once when I attempted to suggest sitting towards the entrance in the front) "protected their privacy." I wasn't quite convinced that what they sought out was actually privacy, they often made a ruckus from their cheers and shouts that attracted onlookers.

When Patrick saw me he forced a strained smile in my direction, the kind that clearly meant that he was slightly upset by the lack of promptness I had showed. I shuffled into the empty seat beside him attempted to say a quick apology, but his attention had already moved on to a topic and he looked completely immersed in it. I glanced across to see one of the female members of the group give me a dirty look.

I ordered a burger with an extra side of fries.

I found myself at the Job Center Tuesday morning, the miserable acidic feeling returning to my stomach. After I filed my first claim for Jobseeker's Allowance, the rest of the morning was full of group interviews with other fellows who looked either just as dazed as I must have, or completely uninterested in the events happening around them.

Eventually I came to meet Syed, a man who looked like to be about in his late thirties or early forties, who was assigned as my personal "adviser". As he scrolled through the contents on whatever was on his screen, I found myself absolutely nervous. I crossed my ankles and then a moment later uncrossed them due to my nerves.

"There's a vacancy at the chicken processing factory, they're looking for someone who could cover the night shift," he told me, glancing at me with a hopeful expression. I instantly shook my head no. Just the thought of possibly working there made the queasy feeling in my stomach intensify.

Syed pursed his lips but didn't say anything. The glow of the screen reflected off his glasses as he continued to browse, "The entertainment industry is always looking for-"

I stopped him before he could continue, "Syed, I'm looking for something that won't cause my dad a heart attack. Isn't there anything normal? Anything in a café or shop?" I clasped my hands together to emphasize the fact that I was truly pleading for some decent job to appear on his computer screen.

My heart sunk as he gave a sigh, "I'm sorry, Louisa. There just aren't any vacancies in that type of work…come back tomorrow morning, something may pop up between now and then." Syed then sent me a weak but encouraging smile, "I'm sure we will be able to find something that matches with the interests you stated on your form."

With that, Syed sent me on my way even though I did not have anywhere in particular that I needed to go or required my presence.

I wandered aimlessly down the street, shifting through the small stream of tourists who were set on reaching their destination (wherever that may be) in the shortest amount of time as possible. I stuffed my hands in the shallow pockets of my coat, trying to ignore the gentle yet brisk wind that hit me. I did not desire trudging back home (especially when I was still jobless) and yet I found myself not wanting to be in any local store (the thought of spending money that I really didn't have was a depressing thought). Instead, I found solace in walking down the various streets that made up the small town and enjoyed the opportunity of being lost in my own thoughts, a habit that inspired my Dad to dub me the "Dreamer." With Treena being deemed the "smart one, filled with potential," I guess the only title that was left was (as mum put it) the "unique dreamer" of the family. I translated her description of me into one word: lackluster.

It was with these cheery thoughts that I decided to sit for a moment on an occupied bench outside one of the various shops that adorned the side of the street. I felt myself slip from the world of reality as I mulled over the worries and troubles that now faced me. To think that I would be unemployed at a mere twenty-six years of age! The thought was absolutely disheartening, and sent me into another wave of silent despair.

"You look absolutely horrible, Clark."

His voice pulled me away from my own inner thoughts, and I blinked a couple of times for my eyes to adjust to his figure. He stood in front of me, hands in the pockets of his trousers, a gray cardigan fitted to accentuate his shoulders and biceps. He looked like some kind of Burberry model.

I repressed the scowl that wanted to appear on my lips, and instead responded wryly, "Charming as ever."

He smiled at me, his pearly white teeth almost seeming luminescent in this gloomy weather, "Of course I am, Clark. You on the other hand look absolutely miserable. What's got you so down in the dumps?"

I huffed, not having the patience to put up with him or his personality, "Nothing that involves the likes of you."

He either pretended not to hear my comment, or he ignored it, because he then sat next to me on the bench, our shoulders almost touching. He clearly had no respect for personal boundaries. I scooted away from him, almost half on and half off the edge of the bench. He didn't seem to mind my obvious discomfort. Instead he looked rather amused by the whole situation.

I gritted my teeth.

"Come on, tell Uncle Will," he prodded.

I wrinkled my nose at his words, and crossed my arms out of irritation. He looked at me expectantly. I pursed my lips to show that I wasn't planning on talking to him any time soon. I wondered if he would respect my wishes and get off my bench.

He opened his mouth to speak and I inwardly groaned.

"Fine, if you won't tell me, I'll just have to guess," he then hummed to himself, pretending to be deep in thought. He then gave me a lopsided grin, "Boy trouble?" He managed to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively and he looked utterly ridiculous. I gave a short burst of laughter before I whacked his shoulder, "No, of course not!"

I then changed my tune to one of slight sarcasm, "Well, that is if you think running the Xtreme Viking Triathlon in Norway is the perfect, romantic getaway."

He gave me an exaggerated look of disbelief and utter horror, "You don't like to run?"

I gave him a wry smile, "My chest isn't exactly built for it."

That earned me a genuine smile. I decided he looked quite handsome when he smiled that way.

He leaned back against the back of the bench, directing his attention to those who passed by with their hands full of a shopping bags, "Does Mr. Running Man have a name?"

I relaxed a little bit and focused on the image of Patrick that was currently in my mind, "Patrick. He's a personal trainer. Met him when I was his hairdresser."

"That explains it then," he looked over at me before adding, "The love of running, I mean."

I kept my eyes on the people who were walking past, clearly unstartled and uncaring of the staring that I had been committing for the last couple of minutes. I wasn't sure if he was looking for a response, so I only gave a slight hum to signal that I had heard him.

Another question rose from his lips, "How long have you been together?"

"Six years," I replied plainly.

A string of laughter that would have been contagious if the following words didn't accompany it: "Six years!? Dear Lord, six years, Clark?"

I bristled, "Don't laugh."

The laughter stopped emanating from him and he moved on to his next question, "Six years is a long time. How old are you, Clark?"

I clicked the heel of my shoes together, which produced a small sharp sound. I rather liked it. It felt so satisfying. I did it again before answering him, "Twenty six." I glanced at him, attempting to arch my eyebrow like he had done during many of our meetings, but I knew it was a sloppy imitation, "You?"

"Thirty one."

I kept the surprise off my face. He looked younger than thirty one. If I had to guess, I would have predicted that he was my age. Perhaps one or two years older.

A small moment of silence.

I then realized that he was waiting for me to say something, that it was my turn to contribute to the conversation. I gave a small brief sigh before telling him what was really on my mind, "The prospects at the Job Center aren't looking particularly great unless I want to work chicken processing factory or the entertainment industry."

My confession did not seem to faze him. He titled his head to a slight angle as inquired, "What do you want to do with your life, Clark?"

My expression must have been one of confusion because then he clarified, "Do you want to stay here all your life? Do you have plans or dreams that you want to accomplish? A bucket list? A lifelong wish that you want to see fulfilled?"

I found myself unable to answer. Truth be told, I had never thought about it. I looked down at my shoes, feeling no inspiration to click the heels of my shoes to produce the sound that had once sounded so pleasing to my ears. After a moment, I shrugged and managed to meet his eyes, "I just want a job. I really need one."

I wasn't sure what emotion was exactly conveyed in his eyes. Was it disappointment? Displeasure? Was it simply one of a neutrality? Perhaps I was overanalyzing. Perhaps he didn't really care what my answer was, and was only attempting at making small talk.

After a mere moment he then got to his feet and turned to face me, "Well then, Clark, consider yourself hired at the castle. The café needs some help in running. Come to work tomorrow at 8:30 sharp."

I opened my mouth to protest. To argue that I didn't need his pity. To question what gave him any right in hiring me. But before I could say anything, he held out a hand which served as a successful tactic in silencing me, "It's better than working at a chicken processing factory or in the entertainment industry."

With that, he put his hands back into the pockets of his trousers, and strode away down the street until he was completely out of sight.

Author's Note: Thoughts? Review?

- The Painted Green Door